


The Odd Couple

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: And she's fed up with Remy, Angst, Anna Marie is a Good Bro, Awkwardness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nurse Remy, Patient Logan, Recovery, School Janitor Logan, Showers, Sponge Baths, Unemployed Musician Remy, Unwilling Roommate AU, VERY AGGRESSIVE CUDDLING, Your Injury Was My Fault So Please Don't Sue Me, domestic AU, eventual cuddling, injured logan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Remy is a hot mess. Adulting isn't his strong suit. Neither is paying his half of the rent he and his roommate Anna share while he waits for his next music gig. (It's out there. He can almosttasteit.)But when he causes his gruff neighbor - who already HATES him - to injure himself, leaving him laid up for weeks, well. It's time for Remy to step up.Provided Remy and Logan don't kill each other first...





	1. Too Much Information

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SisterWine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterWine/gifts), [God_of_Death](https://archiveofourown.org/users/God_of_Death/gifts).



> Sisterwine and I chatted about this idea one night and laughed at the thought of these two getting on each other's nerves. I set this down when I tiptoed my way out of this particular fandom, but I kept this in my drafts just the same. Some of the references are a little dated, because I wrote this back when smartphones were a luxury and people still used landlines and worried about long-distance calls, and when wages were a little lower. That's what happens when you wait too long to update a story.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyhoo. Here ya go.

Logan's coffee timer beeped at him in tandem with his alarm. AC/DC blared from his little clock radio as he slapped the snooze button. He rolled to his back with a groan. He wasn't ready to start the day yet.

Logan stretched, rose and scratched himself on the way to the bathroom, listening to various joints pop. He wandered inside and flipped the lid up without even opening his eyes, pissing blind for the most part. Once his bladder was no longer full, his stomach reminded him that it was empty. He ignored it a little longer in favor of a shower. The pulsing, almost scalding spray felt good against the knotted muscles of his back and neck.

Logan's day fell into place one piece at a time as he went through the motions. Catch the red line to work. Hassle Mac for that fifty he still owed him. Grab a roast beef on marbled rye from Moe's. Renew his truck's tags and take it for a lube and tune-up. Watch the game. Logan cracked his last two eggs into a small frying pan whose Teflon coat was on its last gasp. He drenched the yolks in Tabasco before pouring his first cup of coffee out of several for the day.

He donned his Dickies that he ironed the night before. His uniform was the only unrumpled thing in his tiny apartment. Logan liked his surroundings broken-in, 'lived in,' if he had to describe it. Martha Stewart he wasn't.

He gave his thick, dark hair a lick and a promise in the mirror by his front door before he locked up. Logan whistled tunelessly and spied his neighbor Anna Marie's newspaper outside her door. He picked it up and skimmed the front page while he had a chance.

He was just about to chuck it back onto her doormat when he heard the jiggle of her knob. The door was jerked open, but instead of her wary green eyes, he was greeted by her roommate's smirk.

'Allo,' he offered. He held out his hand. “Done wit' dat yet? Don' wanna rush yer enjoyment or anyt'in.” Logan made a low noise of irritation and handed him the paper.

Something about the kid always got on his damned nerves. And the kid _knew_ it.

“Must be nice not ta have anywhere ta rush off to yet like the rest of us. Give ya plenty of time ta read the color ads, Slick,” Logan deadpanned. “Looks like Penney's is havin' a sale on panties. And tight shirts.”

He shrugged. “T'anks fo' de tip. Only problem wit' dat is, Remy prefers t'go commando.” He winked and saluted him with his coffee mug. “Cheers.” He closed the door on Logan's look of disgust.

“Too much damned information,” he muttered under his breath on the way to the elevator. Because of course his traitorous brain fed him that image...

Remy backed his way into his apartment, watching Logan hurry off. “Prick,” he muttered aloud as he closed the door.

It was one of the last civil conversations they would have.

"Did ya get the paper?" Anna called out to him.

"Yeah," he replied as he scanned the headlines.

"Gonna check the want ads?" she suggested ever-so-helpfully.

His sigh was heavy, and he was glad she didn't see him silently banging his head against the wall.


	2. Sprawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents will happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all downhill from here, folks. You knew this. You know ME.
> 
> Oh. For the record, once again, there are more New Mutants and supporting X-Men in the background than you can shake a stick at, since I still can't be bothered to write OCs. Call me limited. But enjoy the familiar faces and names.

“Ya didn't leave me any hot water,” Anna shouted over the shower. Remy caught her scowling out through the crack of the door and shrugged.

“My bad.”

“Why'd ya even get up so early?”

“Had an errand I wanted ta run.” Remy headed to the kitchen, only half-listening to her complaints.

'Ah would've liked t'wash mah hair without endin' up with icicles hangin' off mah ass,' she continued. She closed the door, which muffled anything else she had to say. Remy barely made out her asking if he planned to buy milk. He rummaged through the pantry for the mostly empty box of Trix.

Despite Anna's complaints, she still spent a long time in the shower. Remy ladled a generous amount of sugar into his cup of coffee and took apart the newspaper, bypassing the circulars that Anna's crotchety neighbor suggested. Remy couldn't guess how high the stick was that he had up his ass. Remy fished out the classifieds and sports pages for himself and laid the rest in front of Anna's place at the table.

Ana Marie opened the door and released the overwhelming scents of her cologne, hair spray and shampoo as they wafted out on the remaining steam. Remy gagged slightly, but Anna complained just as much about his Axe and Old Spice. Anna even caught him once borrowing her Arm and Hammer deodorant roll-on stick when his own clear one ran out. (She never let him hear the end of it.)

Yet somehow they got along fine. Remy lived with Anna Marie for six months and counting, and they had yet to disagree on anything more relevant than where to buy toilet paper.

Anna made faces at herself in the mirror as she put on her eye makeup. "Ya gonna try for that job I showed ya? It pays fourteen-fifty an hour."

"T'ought about it."

"Whaddya mean, 'thought about it?'' She frowned at him, setting her mascara wand down even though she only had one eye done. "Why don't ya go for it? Don't just let it slip by."

"It ain't de kinda t'ing I'm lookin' for, petit.'

"What ya should be lookin' for is somethin' that pays the phone bill. It was ridiculous this month. I checked the data usage, Rem. It was almost all you. What were ya doin' that used up that much bandwidth?'

"I wuz followin' a lead," he shrugged. "Posted a few videos for auditions." He took another bite of his cereal.

"So fourteen bucks isn't a lead?" she said hollowly. Anna threw up her hands. "I give up."

"Whatsamatter, petit?" Remy let the spoon sag against the rim of the bowl.

"Why do ya keep doin' this, Remy? Don't ya think it's time ya found something more steady than sittin' in a booth?"

"Ya didn't have a problem wit' it when Remy moved in.' Remy set down the sports pages before he was finished with the jump page from the Lamar Odom headline. His brows drew together in classic, miffed fashion. Anna rolled her eyes.

"Course Ah didn't have a problem, Rem, when ya were getting' enough hours and ya had other side gigs. But ya've been scrapin' the bottom of the barrel. We can't live like this. The recession sucks. What if something happened ta mah job, huh? We'd be up shit creek!"

"Ain't de first time I've heard that,' Remy muttered. "Sheesh''

"Ah'm serious. What, Ah ain't allowed ta say anything when Ah'm worried about how we'll get by?" Remy sighed.

"Finish puttin' yer makeup on, chere. I'll make ya some breakfast."

"That doesn't let ya off the hook."

"Want mushrooms an' cheddar?"

"Eggs? Why? I was thinkin' 'bout a protein shake."

"Might be kinda hard, seein' how we're outta milk''

"Remy!' she carped. "Jerk!" Remy hissed in mock fear as he hopped out of his chair when Anna Marie charged at him, shoe at the ready to smack him.

He loved getting a rise out of her.

*

 

"LOGAN! LOGAN!" Several shrill voices chanted his name at him as soon as his feet hit the blacktop. He sighed and offered his best long-suffering look, complete with a roll of his eyes.

The rugrats loved hounding him; it was their job as much as it was his to unplug the toilets or mop the teacher's lounge.

The Maximoff kid threw a football straight at his head without any reservations. "Think fast, Logan!" he shouted.

His beefy hand reached up and snatched the ball out of the air seconds shy of knocking in his nose. He winged it back just as easily.

"C'mon, Logan, come an' play," Lorna whined. She was the school's resident tomboy and loved playing with her half-brother, Pietro.

"Ain't got time, guys. Some of us hafta work for a livin'." He eyed Pietro, giving him his best 'scary adult in authority' stone face. "Betcha ain't even finished yer homework. Have ya?"

"Have too," he argued uneasily, but he ducked his platinum head sheepishly.

"G'wan. Behave. Unless ya wanna be like me and push a mop with me, guys, ya better do yer work. Homework is s'posed ta be done at home."

Because Logan took a "Do as I say, not as I did in high school myself" approach to giving the youngsters advice...

"Throw us one more," crowed Lucas Bishop, the tall, unassuming kid that Logan caught scrawling grafitti in the boys' washroom a week prior. His punishment had been to follow Logan through each classroom with a bottle of disinfectant, cleaning all the pencil and ink scribbles from each desk. It was tedious and boring, and he grumbled into Logan's purposely deaf ears how unfair it was. Despite that, he liked the surly janitor and the corny jokes he cracked all the time. Once in a while, when he came out to help with yard duty, Logan would pitch them the softball for an inning or two.

But Logan complained about it like they were killing him. He had to; he couldn't make it too easy for them or let them mistake him for a soft touch.

Pietro threw him the ball again, or rather threw it at him. Logan caught it reluctantly. "I ain't got time for this, guys!" He winged it back.

"Aw!" Lucas protested. "Whatsamatter? Think a bunch of us can't take you on?"

"In yer dreams, kid. G'wan, keep talkin' smack. Think yer bad? Huh?"

"I know I'm bad!" he bragged, straightening his jacket collar and profiling. Logan rolled his eyes.

"Oyyy' yer too much fer me, kid."

Luke low-fived him, though, before he moved on.

The bell rang throughout the schoolyard, and the kids began to line up outside the main entrance. Logan waded through them with little to no greeting as he made his way inside.

He stopped when he smelled something artificial and suspiciously strawberry. He paused and tapped the shoulder of a slender, dark-haired girl running her mouth a mile a minute with two of her friends. She turned and looked up at him sheepishly.

"Hi, Logan!" she chirped.

"Out with it," he grunted, holding up his hand.

"Aw, c'mon, that's gross," she complained, wrinkling her nose. She had paused in chewing the incriminating Bubble Yum as soon as she'd turned around. He gestured more emphatically with his raised palm, and she sighed.

"Ya know the rules, Wanda. No gum in school."

"Awwww!" She took the damp pink wad from her mouth and deposited it in his hand, cringing at how unsavory it looked sitting there.

"Thank you," he muttered as he continued his trek inside. He heard a chorus of 'eeeeewww!' behind him and smirked. Better that they give up the goods to him outside, rather than end up with detention if they were caught with it inside.

Logan reached the teacher's lounge and wadded it up in a paper towel. Once he rid himself of it, he washed his hands with the drying, antiseptic soap in the pump by the sink, glad it lacked the floral scent of the stuff in the women's washroom.

"Logan? Did you drop off your project sheet in my inbox yet?" It was on the tip of Logan's tongue to tell him "Check yer inbox and find out," but he decided to go easy on Scott this morning. He nodded affably without facing him, drying his hands with another rough brown paper towel.

"Yep."

"Thanks. Appreciate it. I meant to ask you, too, if you could buff that hallway outside the nurse's office this morning."

"Got a full plate, if I clean the carpet in the lounge like ya asked."

"Could you fit it in? Even if you just lay down two coats of wax today, just to get part of it done."

"We got big company comin'?" That was the easy assumption.

"Superintendent. Quarterly budget meeting." That opened Logan's eyes.

"Right. Wax. Got it." Scott sighed.

"I think the coffee's fresh. Want some?"

"If yer headin' that way fer some, sure. Sounds good." Logan followed him to his office and waded through the foot traffic of kids salvaging text books and gym clothes from their junk-stuffed lockers, grimacing at the odor from a ripe, forgotten bagged lunch. He paused by Fred Duke's locker and made a motion with his thumb over his shoulder. "Chuck that thing before it stinks up the hall, kid."

"Sorry, Logan."

"Ehhhhh'' Logan made his Sunday best grimace and bulldog pose; Fred put up his dukes and pretended to go a few rounds with him before he complied, discarding the bag in the hall rubbish container. Scott chuckled from behind him before they headed inside his office. Logan silently noticed that the door pane needed Windexing when he had an opportunity.

"There's still time for you to make it to home room," Scott offered.

"I was never on time for home room when I was their age, either," Logan admitted.

"They won't listen to you if you give them too much leeway and act too much like their buddy."

"Are ya kiddin'? Half the time they're running scared in the other direction." Scott chuckled and shook his head. "And that's the assistant principal's job."

"Speaking of which, Emma's out sick. Could you clean her office in the meantime?"

"Will do." Frost was notorious for shooing him away and closing her door when Logan was vacuuming the main office, so he had a hard time getting in there.

"While I have you here," Scott added as he booted up his computer, "I need to pencil you in for your performance eval." Logan mentally groaned. "They're weighting it differently this year."

“They weight it differently _every_ year.”

“I know. We'll see. How about Wednesday the fifth?”

“Okay.” Logan poured himself a cup of the school's cheap brew and blew on it, glad that it was at least hot.

That was the last moment of his day that he could actually relax.

 

By four o'clock that evening, Logan was frazzled, tired, and starving. His Dickies pants were covered in spatters of white floor wax and his hair was disheveled; he caught his reflection in one of the door windows and grimaced. He looked like hell.

But the school looked good. The locker rooms and rest rooms smelled fresh, the hall floors sparkled and everything was in its place. The last late bus was gone from the campus, signaling that the kids playing intramurals were finally headed home.

Mac had given him his fifty back, plus an extra sandwich he'd picked up, saving Logan the trip to Moe's. More than anything, though, Logan longed to head home and put his feet up to watch the game.

He caught the red line and read the sports page of the paper he finally picked up. That reminded him of Anna's smart mouthed roommate's comment from that morning. Logan tsked to himself. Commando… sheesh.

Kid struck him as a real himbo, anyway. That type was always a chick magnet. Irresponsible, carefree and way too pretty, the kind that could talk a woman out of her clothes and then talk her into a ride home the next day. Logan wondered how Anna stayed so secure knowing her roommate - Logan had no doubt in his mind that the kid was more than that - was such a night owl.

Not that it mattered to him. Logan minded his own business.

But still… kid was way too much of a flirt.

 

*

Logan wrinkled his nose at the familiar, slightly stale smell of the front corridor of his apartment building. But he didn't take his work home; his landlords could take care of their own place without any interference or suggestions from him. It was ironic that Logan was such a stickler at work for keeping things neat as a pin, but once he was off the clock, he was an absolute slob. His mother would have fainted dead away if she was still alive.

He climbed the stairs, flipping through a handful of envelopes as he went, not holding onto the banister.

Upstairs, Remy stepped out into the hallway and found two of the teenaged kids from the third floor, Roberto and Sam, playing with a small remote control car. Its buzzing and grinding gears made a loud racket that had been plaguing Remy all afternoon.

“C'mon, now,' he beckoned, making cutting motions across his neck, 'can it. m' tryin' ta practice a song I'm writin', and I can't t'ink wit' all dis racket.”

“It's a free country,” Sam shrugged.

“Remy's free ta kick yer sorry butts into next week if he don' get no peace an' quiet. Landlady might not appreciate it if Remy raises a noise complaint, neit'er, eh?”

“It's no big deal,” Roberto retorted. “Go ahead.” Yet Remy saw the apprehension in his posture and heard the hesitation in his voice. Their landlady was a woman none of them wanted to cross.

“Naw, forget about it, Bobby. Look, mister, howzabout this: Wanna take a turn?” There was mischief in Sam’s blue eyes and in the quirk of that smile.

Remy wasn't expecting a lack of resistance.

The remote control in Sam's hands looked tempting. Too tempting.

Moments later, he was guiding the small car in hairpin turns around the corridor while both boys cheered him on. “Can dis t'ing do donuts?”

“You don't know how to drive, here, lemme show ya!” Sam teased.

“Non, ya let it go, don' 'spect Remy ta give it back, now!” They continued to smack talk and the car continued its wild path until Remy gave a left turn too much “oomph.”

The car careened down the stairs.

“Ooooh!” Roberto and Sam winced in unison.

The car bounced down the stairs. A wise person would've wanted to watch their step and hold onto the banister, or even keep their eyes open for someone - or _something_ \- coming from the opposite direction.

Remy dashed over to the rail when he heard a familiar low, scratchy voice humming what sounded like a Fabulous Thunderbirds song. The boys flanked his sides, suddenly wearing identical “oh, shit!” expressions.

“Mec, be careful, watch-”

“GAH! SHI-”

_CRASH! THUMP, THUMP, WHUMP!_

''- out,” Remy finished helplessly.

That answered his question. The car didn't do donuts.


	3. Take Your Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy has some explaining to do. Anna makes a suggestion of how to fix his mistake.
> 
> One he might regret taking, in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don’t know what I’m doing with this story. I didn’t know what I was doing with it almost a half a decade ago when I wrote the first chapter. But, it’s Remy/Logan. There can never be enough of it.

Remy couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a more uncomfortable cab ride. He hunched up against the rear passenger window of the cab, which smelled like the tail end of a Febreeze plug-in and cigarettes as they rode down the darkened street. 

“M’sorry,” Remy muttered for the tenth time that night.

“Fuck. I know that.”

“I am. Dis ain’t… fuck. Dis ain’t how I planned on spendin’ my night at home,” Remy told him, as though that could possibly help.

“Well, no _shit_.”

The leg laid across Remy’s lap was bent at an unnatural angle. Remy didn’t mind being used as a makeshift pillow if it meant he didn’t have to ride up front with the skeevy-looking driver with a voice like a dull razor and the source of the cigarette stench. The stereo pumped out Lynyrd Skynyrd music and Remy had his window cracked open to give himself a draft of unpolluted air, even though it lifted strands of his long hair and blew them into his eyes, and trailed them into his mouth. He kept scraping them back futilely, wishing he had a hair tie.

Sharing the cab with him was his gruff, surly Canadian neighbor who hated him. And the owner of said busted leg. His thick, dark hair was rumpled, and he was still dressed in his work coveralls. His short nails were filthy and his hands were well-calloused and tanned. His calf felt blazing hot across Remy’s lap, a fact that would have normally appealed to him, had it been anyone else, and any other situation. 

No. The universe was never that kind.

“Fuck, mec, m’sorry!”

Logan rolled his eyes and sighed raggedly.

“He knows, Bright Eyes,” the cabbie answered for him. “Give it a rest. Calm the fuck down. That ain’t helpin’ any.”

“Hey, lay off the kid, okay?” Logan grumbled. “He feels bad enough as it is.”

Which. Just made Remy.

Feel _worse_. 

Remy ducked his head miserably and stared out at the sidewalk panes and street lamps whizzing past them, throwing slices of homely yellow light over his skin. 

“Got any health insurance?” Remy asked cautiously.

“Yeah. Lucky for me. And for you, kid. Hey, at least this wasn’t fucking work comp.”

“No shit,” the cabbie muttered. “Good luck gettin’ _that_ paid. Stepped on a nail once on a construction site. Took months for ‘em to even _think_ of payin’ the claim. Took me a shorter time to just find a different job and pay for the ER visit outta pocket.”

“Jesus,” Logan replied, shaking his head and giving him a wry laugh. “You ain’t lyin’, bub.”

The driver, an enormous, burly blond with craggy eyebrows and the most impressive sideburns Remy had ever seen, made a sound of assent. “You just want the ER entrance, right?”

“Might hafta wait a minute to we can getcha a wheelchair or some crutches,” Remy added as they watched the medical center loom several blocks ahead, imposing against the nighttime skyline. His stomach knotted the closer they drew nearer, waiting to merge with traffic so they could enter the large, circular driveway. They made it up, going over a speed bump that made Logan curse with the impact as it jarred his injured limb.

“FUCK!”

“Fuck,” Remy murmured. “Dat had to hurt.”

“Didn’t exactly fuckin’ tickle,” he growled.

Remy was about ready to cry. Now came the fun part.

“M’gonna ease out from under your leg, mec, so i can get out an’ help you.”

“Hurry it up,” Logan told him. 

“M’gonna try t’be gentle.”

He opened his side of the car, and he tried to lift Logan’s left off of him, but Logan cried out, just this side shy of a roar.

“AAAAGGH! FUCK!”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Ain’t helpin’. What the _fuck._ ”

But Remy slid out gingerly, easing Logan’s leg down to the seat by the edge of his heel before he got out. The slight bounce as he exited the car jarred Logan’s leg again. “AaaggggghhhhGODDAMNIT! KID!”

“SORRY, MEC!” Remy called over his shoulder. He hurried inside the automatic sliding door. The security guard raised and eyebrow at him, adjusting his earwhig. “Hey. My neighbor needs help. He’s in de back of dat cab. He busted up his leg real bad.” He didn’t automatically tack on _an’ it’s all my own damn fault_. The guard nodded curtly.

“I’ll get someone. We’ll bring a wheelchair. Tell him to sit tight.”

Remy sighed gustily through his nose at that request. Logan wouldn’t cotton to it, surely. A kind-faced nurse appeared, wearing light pink scrubs that managed not to clash with her dyed purple hair.

“Hi! I’m Betsy,” she told him, even though her work badge read “Elizabeth.”

“Hey. Dat’s my neighbor. Broke his leg pretty bad fallin’ on de stairs.”

“Oh, boy,” she murmured, clucking her tongue. “That’s doesn’t sound good. Okay. We don’t want him to try to walk on it. I’ll get a couple of lift team techs to come and help me.” She called them on her old-school chocolate bar phone. “Hey. Nate, bring Piotr, please. I’m gonna need a pickup here at the front entrance to the ER. Yeah, I’m outside.”

Two big men who looked ‘roided out and scary-muscular appeared, dressed in matching gray scrubs. The taller of the two was young and baby-faced. They carefully extracted Logan from the cab and shimmied him into the chair, lifting is leg onto the footrest and elevating it to ease the pressure. Logan groaned in relief as they wheeled him inside. They parked him at the front registration desk, where the receptionist grilled him. Logan answered his questions about his insurance coverage tersely as he fished his card out of his wallet.

“I’ve got the Premium Plan,” he explained as she opened up another screen to run his eligibility.

“Good, good,” she agreed in a chipper tone that suggested that his copay for the admission was going to be astronomical, anyway, even if they only treated him for a paper cut. Remy hovered cautiously nearby, until she beckoned to him to sit.

“Are you hear as a friend or family, sir?”

“Uh. As a… neighbor,” Remy told her. Logan shrugged.

“Don’t hafta stay, kid.”

“Non, mec. Lemme stick around til ya get settled in.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Logan’s expression was pained and impatient, but Remy shook his head, making his long hair swish slightly with the gesture. His lips were a tight, thin line.

“Don’ tell Remy when ta worry or not.”

The clerk quirked her brow and suppressed a smile as she continued to type.

“Have ya paid fer the ride yet, genius?”

“Merde… hold on. Be back in a sec!” Remy bolted up from his chair, turned back and made a _Don’t budge_ gesture to both of them before he hurried the rest of the way outside.

Vic, the cabbie, huffed at him expectantly. “Glad ya didn’t forget about me, buddy. Meter’s running.”

“Dat’s fine. Take debit?”

“Your money’s always good here,” he told Remy with a feral grin as he used a small card reader attachment on his phone to swipe Remy’s ATM. “Sign here.” Remy scratched a rough effort at a signature across the screen with his fingernail. “All right. Call me if you two need a ride home.”

“Non… eh. Oui. Mebbe we will. Depends on how long dey take t’take care of ‘im, I guess.”

“Ya ain’t just gonna leave him alone, are ya?” Victor gave him a look reserved for people who double-parked or passed gas in a crowded elevator. 

“Non! ‘Course not.”

“Good. Go. Take care of him, fer fuck’s sake.”

He drove off, giving Remy the narrowest possible opportunity to step back from the cab before he could get run over. Remy growled under his breath, tugging on his hair.

Logan looked just as surprised and annoyed when he returned. “Could’ve gone home,” Logan pointed out.

“Neh.”

“Okay. Fine, then.”

“Dey gonna see ya soon?”

“Yer guess is as good as mine, LeBeau.”

It was the first time Logan had even confirmed that he knew Remy’s full name. It took him a moment to digest that. The receptionist and nurse continued to grill Logan on his health history, asking all the embarrassing questions. 

“How many siblings do you have?” (One. Brother. Older.) “Any issues with anxiety? Acid reflux? Gout? Back pain? Arthritis? Heart attacks? Hypertension? Sexual dysfunction?” (Uh-uh. Nope. Nope. Not that I know of. Not yet. Not so far. Hell, no.) “Have you had a prostate exam or a colonoscopy in the past three years?” (“Had my physical last year. They checked out everything from the rooter to the tooter. Don’t worry about it, darlin’.”)

Remy learned more about him from that interview than he had in the past year of living next door. No pets. He hadn’t traveled out of the U.S. in the past six months. He occasionally smoked cigars. He was a daily drinker, “just to unwind.” No prescription meds, even though his doctor had recommended an antidepressant. 

“Fuck that shit,” Logan muttered.

“Ain’ no big deal if ya need one, mec.”

“Mind yer business, kid.”

Remy sat quietly and minded his business until they wrapped up the health questionnaire and Logan signed all the forms. 

“Condition of admissions. Liability notice. And here’s the receipt for your copay.” Logan took all three, folded them, and crammed them into his coverall pocket. “You can wait in the lobby, there should be enough room for the two of you to sit on that side.”

Logan attempted to wheel himself, but Remy stood and gripped the handles, guiding him away from incoming foot traffic and the closest he could get to the TV, which was showing a soccer match. Logan grunted at him in thanks. Remy silently wished he’d brought his phone charger; his battery was at thirty percent power. He used the meager charge to text Anna.

_Hey. Ain’t gonna be home for a while, petit. Kinda in a pickle._

It only took her ten seconds to reply. 

_What NOW, Rem???_ She added an eye-rolling emoji for good measure. Remy sighed and started typing again.

_Had a little accident. Was playing with the little toy car in the hall with Berto and Sammy. Might not have been the right time. Grumpy Butt from across the hall took a spill._

Logan huffed. “You kids an’ yer phones,” he remarked.

“Jus’ textin’ Anna Marie.”

“She’s home by now, right?”

“She’s got a day job,” Remy agreed.

“Grownups do that,” Logan told him innocently as he pretended to watch the soccer match. Remy rolled his eyes when Logan glanced away, and he went back to his messages.

Just in time for Anna Marie to send a string of gaping emojis and frownies, punctuated by red exclamation points.

_Aw, Rem. You’re in a world of SHIT. What’re you gonna do??? What if he takes you to court for damages?_

Remy felt himself break out in icy sweat while his gut jolted with worry. _I’m here seeing about him. I’m trying to do the right thing, if he’ll let me._

She paused for a moment. _I sure hope so, Rem. For your sake. For OUR sake._

What the hell did she mean by that?

Before he could ponder it, Logan asked him, “Is there anything good in that vending machine?” He nodded at the one on the lobby’s edge, where the carpeting turned into homely, chocolate brown tile that made the trash can the housekeeper rolled across it sound like an army of tanks.

“Mebbe. I can check if ya want?”

Logan handed him a couple of crumpled ones. “See if they have anything like beef jerky.”

Remy nodded, realizing that his own stomach was growling, too. He headed for the machine and perused the overpriced offerings, fishing a couple of ones from his own pocket and making two selections. He returned to Logan with the tiny pouch of jerky and a packet of granola bars that promised to taste dry as wood shavings.

They ate and pondered the soccer match, flipping through magazines with faded, cracked covers. Remy made it two thirds of the way through a depressing _Newsweek_ article on islands sinking due to global warming before the nurse appeared in the doorway with a clipboard. “James Howlett?”

“That’s us,” Logan told Remy.

“Huh?”

“They just called my name.”

“Dey did?”

Logan sighed. “It’s James. I go by Logan.”

“Aw. Didn’ know dat, mec.”

“Can’t imagine ya would.”

Remy got up and wheeled him through the doorway, following the nurse as she badged them inside, around the corner and past about three gurneys’ worth of people hacking, groaning, and vomiting, before they reached the tiny exam room.

“Okay. So, we’re going to need to examine your leg and go to CT for a scan. It’ll be easier if we can get you out of that suit, sir.” It was unfortunately a one-piece. “I’m sorry. I know it’s inconvenient when you’re already in pain.”

“There ain’t one convenient thing about this night so far, darlin’. I’m battin’ a thousand,” he told her, offering her a brittle excuse for a smile. She still beamed at the endearment.

“The doctor will be in soon. Give him a few minutes.” Roughly translated, she meant an hour, but Remy and Logan didn’t argue.

She left the room after taking his temperature and blood pressure, peeking into his eyes, ears and up his nostrils with her tiny light, and listening to him cough. 

“Can you help him?” she asked Remy.

“Help him with…?”

“The gown.”

Panic gripped Remy, because of _course_ it had come to this.

“Uh.”

“Think I can manage,” Logan lied, gritting his teeth.

“Okay. Try not to jar your leg too much, sir.”

Logan and Remy stared balefully at each other for several seconds.

“This really might be a good time for ya ta skedaddle,” Logan suggested.

“Mebbe if she’d stuck around ta handle this. ‘Cept she didn’t, mec. Doubt we’ll see her again for the rest of the night, at this rate. You know how ERs are.”

Logan scrubbed his stubbled jaw with his palm. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Had he read Remy’s mind?

Logan leaned back in his chair and gestured to Remy. “Look. Just… it’s gonna hurt. I know that goin’ in. Don’t try for gentleness. Try for getting it done as quick as ya can, and don’t make it awkward, LeBeau. Okay?”

“Awkward, huh? Remy don’ know de meanin’ of de word. S’gonna go smooth as silk. Have ya all duded up in dat gown in a jiffy.”

Oh, how hollow that promise rang.

“OwowOWFUCKfuckFUCK! Watch it, Cajun!”

“Yer sittin’ on it! It’s stuck up under yer ass, mec! M’trying t’get up under it!”

Logan glared at him as though he was trying to get up _in_ it. They wrestled for purchase as Remy gradually worked the coverall off of him, trying to be mindful of his injured limb. In the meantime, he came into more contact than he ever would have asked with the burly Canadian’s bare, hairy flesh. _Damn._ He didn’t believe in manscaping, that was for sure. Dark, coarse hair slicked over his arms, chest and legs. Remy tried to ignore the intriguing little happy trail leading down into the waistband of his gray cotton boxer briefs. 

What Remy couldn’t appreciate about Logan seeing him in the hall or through his doorway from day to day was how muscular and bulky he was. He was a melody of hard, bulging muscles. His shoulders, back and chest were enviably broad. Logan never skipped arm day. Or leg day. Shit, guy looked like he lived at the gym instead of their overpriced apartment building. Graceful veins ran along the column of his throat, sternum and biceps. Remy’s artistic muse appreciated his proportions and firm, taut skin, unevenly tanned from working outside.

The bulge of his crotch became the immediate, unwanted focus of Remy’s attention, until Logan growled at him, “Eyes up, bub!”

Remy looked away. “Sorry. Sorry, mec!”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t just assume from my sparkling wit an’ charm that I ain’t bashful about this shit.”

Remy fumbled with the gown and helped Logan tie it at the neckline. It was too much of a struggle to try to tie the back around his waist while he was sitting down, and it gave Remy an unfortunate vantage point of the elastic of his boxers where the waistband sagged a little. Not that the view was bad. Just. 

It wasn’t an open invitation to _stare_

Logan sagged back into the wheelchair, seemingly exhausted just from that exercise. Remy remembered that he’d worked a full day, and now he was being deprived of the chance to unwind in his own apartment with that “one or two beers” he admitted to enjoying on the regular. He was carrying tension in his neck and shoulders, brows drawn together. “Think this is the end of the road, bub. G’wan. Go home.”

“Not til ya get back from CT,” Remy told him stubbornly. “And til they figure out what dey gon’ do wit’ you.”

“Probably a cast,” Logan reasoned. “Or a boot.”

“Dat ain’ gon’ be fixed wit’ a boot.”

“Don’t jinx me, Rem. Don’t come in here thinkin’ the worst.”

“Mec. Dat leg ain’ even facin’ the same direction dat a leg’s s’posed ta. It ain’ a good look. T’ink dey might keep ya longer den a coupla hours.”

“Then, ya might as well get goin’.”

“Non.”

“Non… no? Yer tellin’ me no, right?”

“Oui.”

“Geez.”

“Hey. Let’s say through de power of positive thinkin’ an’ good mojo, ya walk outta here wit’ a lil’ bag of painkillers and an ice pack, and Remy don’ worried boutcha for nuthin’, den more power to you, mec. Now, let’s say t’ings don’ quite go as planned. Dey keep ya and need ta do more den slap a band-aid or a boot on dat leg. Yer gon’ need help gettin’ home. An’ yer gon’ need help after ya get home. Feel me?”

“LeBeau. C’mon. Maybe my expectations aren’t as high as ya’ve led yerself ta believe, eh? I don’t expect ya t’fix this. Okay? I don’t.”

“Mec…”

“Rem, don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe I _am_ worried ‘bout it. Fuck…” Remy ran his fingers through his hair. “Dis is my damned fault.”

The words were sitting there between them, pink, sharp-horned goblins with chins propped on fists. 

“How do ya figure?”

“I wuz de one playin’ wit’ dat damn car. Belonged to Sammy and Roberto. But dey let me have a turn.”

Logan weighed this admission while his face went on a journey.

Then, he clapped his palm over his face, letting it slide all the way down slowly, as though he could wipe his circumstances away. “Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“Non.”

“Just. Just say ‘no.’ Okay? It don’t gotta be fancy.”

“No,” Remy grated out. “Dat better?”

“Oh, _so_ much better.”

“Mec? Do me a favor. Don’ sue me. Remy ain’ got two nickels t’rub together.”

“What’d be the point? That’s why I have accident insurance through the school. I have to, since I work with heavy machinery anyway. Mind ya, Rem, that don’t mean my adjuster isn’t gonna ask me if I’m shittin’ him when I tell him ‘my neighbor who I never see go out the door to a nine-to-five tried to take me out with a toy car on the stairs,’ but he’s probably heard weirder things than that. Right?”

Logan’s tone was dry and resigned, no doubt more than Remy deserved.

Remy leaned back and covered his face with both palms, letting the crown of his head thunk the wall behind him.


	4. Movin’ On Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y’ain’t as dainty as ya look, mec.”
> 
> “Shaddup, Rem.”
> 
> “Jus’ sayin’. Dere’s a chance ol’ Remy might’ve overestimated his own strength. Okay. Dere we go.” 
> 
> Remy felt Logan’s low growl of frustration in his bones. This was gonna be a long two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here comes the Rising Action. It’s time for Remy to get his act together. 
> 
> Poor, unfortunate bastard. *rubs hands together evilly and releases smug kitty laughter*

Anna just sat and stared at him from the kitchen table. She threw up her hands and shook her head. “Well, _fuck._ Remy, this ain’t a good look. What’re you gonna do about this?”

“Don’ have a clue, petit.”

“Well, grow one. Quick.”

“Dey said his surgery went well.”

Remy returned home after another expensive cab ride during the wee hours, waiting for the doctor to meet him in the hospital lobby. Dr. Banner was middle-aged and sized, with surprisingly brawny forearms, no doubt from wielding power tools for a living. He called Logan’s name - his real name - gently, then repeated it when no one replied to him. Remy shook himself awake when he realized that he was addressing Logan’s friends or family, and that actually meant _him_.

Anna tsked in pity. “Damn. Surgery, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Remy, that’s awful. He’s gonna miss out on work. That’s his livelihood.”

“He’s gonna get disability pay and cash in some of his PTO. He’ll be okay,” Remy assured her. “Dat’s de beauty of havin’ a ‘grown-up job.’” He made air quotes around the word and his voice was bitter. Anna laughed mirthlessly.

“Pretty much. Sign me up! I wanna do what _he’s_ doin’.”

“Know how t’drive one of dose fancy lawnmowers or fix A/C vents?”

“Ah could learn. Sheeeee-ooooot,” she exclaimed. “Hope he’s gonna be okay.”

“He said he’ll manage.”

“He got any family?”

“He mentioned a brother.” Briefly, during his health questionnaire. He hadn’t mentioned if he was local or not.

“Hope he can help ‘im out,” she mused. “Does he have any doctor’s appointments?”

Remy gave her a bland look and dug a sheaf of folded papers out of his back jeans pocket. “Has he got appointments? Better question, petit: What appointments _don’_ he have? Ort’opedist. Primary care. Wound care. Pain management. You name it. Had ta pick up a buttload of narcotics from CVS. M’glad he has de good insurance.”

“Once again: Must be _nice_.”

“Wuzn’t easy tryin’ t’get ‘im into his apartment. Those steps are no joke when ya hafta help someone haul demselves up ‘em two whole flights.”

Anna Marie snickered. “Bet that was a hoot. Two of y’all must have looked like Mutt and Jeff.”

“Showin’ a lil’ sympathy would’n’ kill ya, petit.”

“Sorry, sorry…” But her green eyes were still crinkling around the corners, and her nose scrunched with suppressed laughter. 

 

Aside from his impromptu, uncomfortable nap in the waiting room on the hard chairs, Remy had barely slept, partly due to stress, and from wondering how he was going to get Logan home. That fell to him by default. _You break it, you buy it, pal,_ he could almost hear Anna lecture in his head. And he’d broken Logan, all right. 

Dr. Banner explained Logan’s surgery to Remy in the fifth grader’s version and assured him, “He’s doing fine. Still a little groggy. Used some colorful language with the nurses, but he’s oriented to where he is and what he had done. He’s a nice guy,” he mentioned easily. “Are you family?”

“Non. Neighbors. Dat’s it.”

“Sure is great that you could be here to support him,” Dr. Banner told him. His hand was warm when he clapped Remy’s shoulder. “Hey. His room is on the third floor, in the post-surgical wing. Just take the elevator up, and we’ll have the nurse’s station take you to his room.”

“He’s gotta stay overnight?”

“Typically, after this complex of a surgery, you do.”

Oh, that certainly put Remy’s mind to rest. He gave Dr. Banner a smile that lacked its usual wattage and shook his hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Sure. Take care.”

Remy made his way up to that floor, stopping by the nurse’s station. He asked the drowsy-eyed night secretary where Logan was.

“Room three-oh-three,” she told him, nodding around the corner. “Second door on the right.”

“Thanks, chere,” he told her. “Preciate it.”

“No problem!” Remy missed her quick glance after him, appreciating him, herself, particularly the view from below the waist in his favorite jeans. “Mnh, mnh, _mnhh!_ ” she mused under her breath. Remy hesitated a moment, rapping gently on the door before he walked inside.

Logan was leaned, bent and propped every which way, using about a dozen pillows and a blue foam wedge. His face looked wan and his hair was a tousled mess from burrowing back into the pillow. He cracked his eyes open when he heard Remy approach.

“Hey,” he croaked. “Thought ya were goin’ home.”

“Naw,” he told him. “Wuzn’t. Wuzn’t gon’ work. Wanted t’just… y’know. Make sure everyt’in’ went fine, mec.”

Logan nodded. The vestiges of a smile played across his lips, surprising Remy with its appearance. “S’nice of ya. Well. They got me good and doped up with happy juice. Figure I’ve got about four hours til it wears off.”

That pried a chuckle out of Remy. “What’d they give ya?”

“Percocet. Gooooooooood sssshhhtuff,” he slurred. “It. _Works._.” His voice broke a little, going up on a weird lilt. Remy patted his arm awkwardly.

“Good fer you, homme.”

“Didha just call me a potato?”

“What?”

“Potato?”

“What? Non. Non. Didn’t call ya a potato.”

“Then what’s ‘homme?’”

“It’s ‘man,’” Remy explained.

“What’s the word for potato, then?” Logan challenged.

“Pomme,” Remy told him, biting his lip against the impending snicker. Logan looked pleased and relieved with that reply.

“Wuz gonna hafta have a talkin’ to. With ya. If. Ya called me that.” His voice slowed and thickened, and Logan’s breathing drew deep and sonorous.

“G’wan back t’sleep, mec,” Remy murmured. Logan nodded in his sleep. Remy reached out and stroked his wild hair back from his damp brow. His skin felt hot. Remy turned on the small room fan that the central supply department brought up and aimed it at him from an angle, hoping to keep him comfortable.

Remy dozed off on the guest recliner and regretted it. He woke up with a kink in his neck and found Logan staring - glaring? - at him in the dim morning light. He was working on an unappetizing breakfast tray, munching on tepid cornflakes.

“Didn’t have anywhere else ta be, huh?” Logan asked in lieu of “Good morning.”

“You tell me,” Remy yawned. “Whaddya need? Change of clothes fer home?”

Logan grunted. “Actually… yeah. That’d help. S’gonna be a pain tryin’ ta get anything on over this cast. Shorts would be best.” Even though it was fall, and he was going to freeze his fanny off.

“We’ll need t’figure dat out.”

“What’s this ‘we’ shit?” Logan scoffed.

“Gotta get ya home, homme.”

Remy reached over and stole the orange wedge that the kitchen had left on Logan’s plate as garnish. Logan glared at him again.

“Quit filchin’ my fruit.”

“M’hungry.”

“Ain’t my problem.”

“Look. Jus’ tell ol’ Remy what ya wan’ ‘im t’pick up from home. I’ll bring it t’ya.”

“Shorts, I guess. Toothbrush. Chonies.”

“Fair enough.”

Logan pointed to his possessions bag in the corner. “Keys should be in there, for my truck and my apartment.” Remy pulled out the key ring, which featured a souvenir bottle opener and a Maple Leafs metal charm. 

 

*

 

“Don’ know how he lives like dat, Anna.”

“Why? Is it bad?”

“Lawd, petit. ‘Abandon all hope all ye who enter here’ should be printed across de door.”

“Oh, my.”

Remy nodded emphatically. “Seen t’ings no man should see in dat space. And de smell lingers. Our friend Mr. Logan’s been a bachelor too damned long.”

“A bachelor, or just alone?” she pressed. “You’re a bachelor. I don’t hafta keep after you all that much, Rem.”

“Non. Remy’s Tante Mattie taught him how t’keep house and pick up after himself.”

And whenever Remy failed to remember her teachings, Anna gave him a refresher lesson upside the back of his head. Remy kept the trash taken out, the toilet seat pee-free (and was courteous enough to put it back down, thank you very much), and dried the dishes as he went along to avoid the inevitable avalanche in the dish rack.

If he was only more expeditious with his half of the rent every month, he would be the perfect roommate. Well, and if he remembered to buy milk before they were down to the last gulp.

But still.

_Still._

At least Remy wasn’t James Howlett.

His living room resembled a giant laundry hamper. At least three pairs of shoes sat laddered by the front door. All three of them were quite… fragrant. The sofa cushions were piled on the floor, too, like an abandoned pillow fort. Empty juice jugs, cereal boxes, and snack bags littered the kitchen counter, mingling with the dirty dishes that overflowed from the sink. The trash appeared to be paying rent; by Remy’s best guess, it was at least four days old, maybe five. Remy hurried back to the bedroom, and he groaned in defeat.

“Oh, Lawd… merde,” he cursed, fanning the air. _Damn._ It showed just as much neglect as the front room and kitchen. Remy went through the dresser, amazed that there were even clean clothes to be found in the drawers. He found a pair of shorts, a tank top, and a hoodie hanging up on the closet among several pairs of Dickies work pants and more trucker hats than Remy could shake a stick at. Remy threw all of it into a duffel of his own, locked the door behind him, and fled the smell and the sight of dashed hopes and dreams.

After dropping the clothes off and chatting with the nurse, who gradually began to accept that Remy was Logan’s “next of kin,” since the admissions desk listed him as the person who accompanied him (earning a none-too-subtle snort from the patient himself), she divulged that the doctor would be there in the afternoon on his rounds, likely to write the discharge orders.

“Get t’go home, mec.”

“Yaaaaaay, me,” Logan mumbled dryly, already enjoying his after-breakfast painkillers. 

“So. What’s the plan for a ride?”

“Dunno. Cab, I guess. Unless you wanna save us both a little money, go home, get my truck, and drive it back here?”

“Shit,” Remy muttered. “Ya gonna trust me wit’ yer truck?”

“Well, can ya drive?” 

“Yeah. Jus’ ain’ got de money fo’ de insurance and tags to actually _own_ a car.”

“That’s why ya need a real job, bub.”

“Dat’s why Remy lives in a big enough city dat he can ride de bus an’ de red line,” Remy corrected him sourly. “Quit attackin’ my character an’ jus’ gimme de keys. I’ll drive ya home. Least I can do.”

“I think yer butterin’ me up, kid.” There was that odd smile again. Percocet was a frightening drug, Remy realized. 

Yet. It was.

_Cute._

Logan’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. Beneath the scratchy layer of dark stubble, the man had dimples. _Dimples._ Whodathunkit?

The smile still unsettled him as much as it charmed Remy, and he felt himself shiver.

“You cold?’

“Non.”

“Yer too skinny, bub. Need some meat on ya, and ya won’t be shiverin’ like a plucked chicken.”

Remy nearly squawked indignantly. He settled for muttering, “...de _fuck_ , mec?!”

Logan smirked. “Buck-buck-buckOCK!”

The CNA snickered as she brought in a plastic liner of ice water for Logan’s pink pitcher.

 

That had been the beginning of Remy’s troubles. Anna, in the meantime, was eating this up, nodding and shaking her head at appropriate intervals to let Remy know she hadn’t missed a thing.

“Dang, Rem. Wish Ah’d been there fer that. I woulda made popcorn.”

“Shuddup.”

“Awwwww. C’mon. Gotta mess with ya, swamp rat. He was probably eyeballin’ those chicken legs of yours. Gotta stop skippin’ leg day. NEVER skip leg day.”

“Bullshit. Don’ call me ‘Chicken Legs,’ now, ‘Buffalo Butt.’”

“Ooh!” Anna hopped up and chased Remy around the kitchen with a rolled-up dish towel, ready to rat-tail him in the butt with it. “Ya didn’t just go there!”

Remy made lowing noises at her, sounding less like a buffalo and more like a demented cow. Before she could get him, his phone rang, but he continued to duck her attack.

“Truce, truce!” he pleaded. Anna pointed her two fingers at her own eyeballs, then jerked her index finger back at him in a crystal clear, “I’ve got my eye on you” gesture that made him stick out his tongue in her direction. 

“Allo?”

“Hey. Uh. They’re lettin’ me out. Doc wrote the orders. When can ya pick me up?”

“Merde… it’s dat time already?” Logan sounded like he was champing at the bit. Remy spied Logan’s truck keys on the kitchen table. Anna picked them up and eyed a rectangular charm on it, laughing and pointing at it. 

“Rem, didja notice that the girl’s clothes disappear when ya tilt it? It’s 3-D!”

“Anna, shuddup a minute!”

“That yer roommate?” Logan’s voice put a questioning lilt on the word. Remy chafed.

“Yeah. Hey, m’gonna come in a few minutes. I’ll meetcha round front when dey bring ya down.”

“I’ll be the guy pullin’ up to the curb in the slick wheels, Slick.” 

The Percocet was _definitely_ working.

Anna tossed Remy the keys.

“See ya in a few, homme.”

“Quit callin’ me a potato.” Logan hung up, and Anna cackled outright.

“What’d he just say?!”

“Ya don’ wanna even know, girl.”

“Hey,” she told him. “We still need ta talk about this. Ah know yer doin’ him a favor now, but-”

“Yeah, yeah. I know dat.”

“Still. He’s gonna be laid up for a while until he figures out how ta move around. Who’s gonna cook for him and held him with his laundry and bringin’ in his mail? What if he has PT appointments? He could hurt himself again,” she nagged.

“Anna. We’ll figure dat out when we get to it. Calm de fuck down.”

Irritation tightened Remy’s scalp and he began to sweat, because he was certainly still fretting about it.

“It’s not like ya don’t have any time t’kill, what with bein’ between gigs an’ all.”

“I’m still doing weekends at The X,” he reminded her.

“That’s not real work, Remy!”

“Quit tellin’ me dat. Ain’ helpin’ anybody when ya tear me down.”

“Ain’t helpin’ anybody when we’ve got lights that need t’be kept on. Remy, I’ve been on Craigslist.”

Remy’s stomach formed a hard, hot ball. “Why?”

“For a new roommate.”

“ _Anna. Anna Marie._ ” Remy scrubbed his face with his palm. “Seriously?”

“Serious as a heart attack. Ah’m tired, Rem. We’re strugglin’. We’ve been strugglin’ for a long time. 

“So, ya wanna kick me out? Is dat what yer tellin’ me, girl?”

“I’m suggesting you talk to Logan about an arrangement. Like, work for rent. Be his personal assistant. Cook. Housekeeper. Chauffeur. Somethin’ like that.”

“...de _fuck_ , Anna Marie Raven. I can’t b’lieve m’hearin’ dis wit’ my own ears.”

“Hey. It might work.” She warmed to the idea the more she talked about it. “It could. He’s gonna need help. This is still yer fault. Ya know Ah’m right.”

Remy raked his fingers through his hair and glared at her, then threw up his hands. “Fuck. Fuck dis. Can’t b’lieve ya’d do me like dat, Anna.”

“Suck it up, buttercup.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. Fuck me. _Don’t_ fuck me. That’s what got us into that mess before,” she mocked. “That didn’t work then, and this ain’t workin’ now, Remy, and ya can’t lie t’me and tell me any different.”

Remy rushed from the apartment before he could say anything that he might regret. He fumed, feeling the cool air outside whispering against his sweaty skin. She’d worked him up that much, forcing everything he’d been shoving down for months up to the surface.

Anna was tired of him.

Remy longed to tell her, so badly, and for so long, _Yeah? Well, me too, sugar. Me-fuckin’-too._

Remy noticed that the tank was only a quarter-full, but it would work. The truck was as much of a disaster area as Logan’s apartment. The empty soda bottles and fast food bags were old enough to have faded in color from the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Remy shuddered at the stench, planning to shovel the truck out once he got Logan back up to his apartment. People who constantly apologized for having a messy car and who then never cleaned it were one of his biggest pet peeves. Then again, Logan had a vehicle. Remy couldn’t throw stones.

Remy wrangled over the blow-up in the kitchen the whole way through mid-afternoon traffic. His stomach growled, demanding to know when he planned to feed it lunch. “You shut de fuck up, too,” he muttered to it as he drove into the parking lot, toward the parking concierge podium. “Hey. M’pickin’ up a patient,” he told the young man as he leaned out the window.

“Want me to take care of that for you, sir? So you can help him down?”

“Dat’ll work,” Remy told him, until he saw a young orderly in green scrubs wheeling Logan down the front corridor and through the sliding doors.

“T’ought ya were gonna call me before ya came down.”

“Tired of waitin’ upstairs.” 

“Okay, den.”

Remy and the orderly wrangled Logan into his truck after Remy slid the seat back as far as it could go. The hospital volunteer loaded Logan’s new crutched into the truck bed and gave his shoulder a fond pat before they closed the passenger side door.

“Get well soon, pumpkin,” she told him. Logan gave her a smile that managed to charm and that lacked even an ounce of snark.

“All of ya took good care of me, Sunshine,” he told her, earning himself the elderly woman’s pleased giggle and another pat.

“Real ladie’s man,” Remy teased. Logan cocked a brow in his direction.

“Look who’s talkin’. Pot, meet kettle.”

“Get well soon.”

“Ya owe me a dance date when I do, Gertie.”

And off they went, neatly beginning Remy’s ordeal.

 

They got stuck in the next six red stoplights, and Remy’s growling stomach competed with the old pickup’s staticky radio.

“Gonna stay skinny if ya don’t eat. I can’t listen to that. C’mon. Pull into that Mickie Dee’s.”

“Stuff’s bad for ya, mec.”

“Pffft. It’s food. And you an I don’t hafta _cook_ it. Yer hungry, kid. If ya wanna be picky, grab a damn salad, be miserable, and shut the fuck up. But I’m buyin’.”

Remy pouted but turned in through the drive-thru line, edging up to the menu and squawk box. “Welcome to McDonald’s. Can I take your order?” the clerk chirped.

“I’ll take the two Big Mac combo, large,” Logan barked, shouting over Remy through the window and making him flinch with the volume. “Make the soda a Coke. The real kind, not that diet crap, okay, sweetheart?”

“Jesus,” Remy muttered, drilling his pinkie into his ear. 

“Order somethin’, Cajun.”

“Uh. I’ll jus… have de McNuggets. De ten-piece wit’ de medium fry.”

“The combo, sir?”

“Get yer money’s worth,” Logan grumbled, even though it was his money in question. “Get yerself a drink.”

“Sprite,” Remy called out. “Not dat diet crap.” That earned him a grunt of approval from the space to his right.

 

Remy would regret it later that afternoon, but his hand dove into that paper bag more than once on the rest of the ride home.

 

*

They ate the remainder of the food in the parking lot. “Beats havin’ ta carry it upstairs,” Logan reminded him. Man had a point. Logan wolfed down his heart attack on a plate in what felt like mere seconds. Remy nearly swooned. 

“Where do ya put it all?” Remy murmured.

“What? M’hungry,” Logan shrugged around a mouthful. Remy recoiled.

Remy went to throw out the empty containers and wrappers in the nearby receptacle on the edge of the lot, but before he could get up, Logan grunted at him, “Leave it. C’mon. Get my ass outta hear so I can go inside.”

Remy, dismayed, chucked the bag of trash into the back of the truck cab with the growing pile. Fine, then. He made his way around to the passenger side and reached down to help Logan out.

“Don’t strain yerself.”

“Pssssht. C’mon, now. Remy can manage jus’ fine.”

“Careful. I need my next dose soon.”

“Gonna head to de CVS after dis, mec.”

They stumbled awkwardly. Remy misjudged the angle, and Logan almost pulled him forward into the truck until he got his shoulder under his arm properly. Logan’s body was bulky and warm in the hoodie, and Remy could smell the onions from the burgers on his breath. He had the brief mental flash of his eyebrows singeing off from the odor…

Remy managed to haul Logan to his feet - more accurately, to his good foot - and hand him the crutches. Logan huffed, balancing awkwardly and testing them out.

“Can ya manage?”

“Yeah. Gimme a chance.” Remy hovered closely and watched Logan make the first few painful-looking hops. This was going to take forever. Remy resisted the urge to grab the trash from the truck. He needed to babysit his charge until he was safely ensconced in his apartment.

His stinking trash pit of an apartment…

Anna’s suggestion still rankled. There was no way. No way in hell was Remy planning to ask Logan if he could move in with him and deal with _that_.

Logan had to pause after the tenth hop. “Fuck. Help. I need _help_ , damn it.”

“Shit. Okay, dat’s fine. Just… okay.”

They negotiated their way into the front lobby of the building, and Remy cursed the lack of an elevator. Logan eyed the tall flight of steps and sighed raggedly.

“Ready?”

“Fuck, no…”

“Let’s get dis done, mec.”

Logan let Remy shoulder his way under his arm again, and Logan abandoned the second crutch, leaning it against the wall. Logan gave Remy a portion of his weight, and they pushed on, slowly taking the first three steps. Only fifteen more to go…

“Y’ain’t as dainty as ya look, mec.”

“Shaddup, Rem.”

“Jus’ sayin’. Dere’s a chance ol’ Remy might’ve overestimated his own strength. Okay. Dere we go.” 

Remy felt Logan’s low growl of frustration in his bones. This was gonna be a long two months. The neighbors heard low grunts and loud curses as they continued their climb. 

“Yer too goddamn tall,” Logan told him.

“Never been told dat before.”

“We ain’t evenly matched.”

“Understatement of de damn year, mec.”


End file.
